


In All Fairness

by Allychik6



Series: In All Fairness [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Feelings!, Infidelity, Lots of Angst, M/M, one angry teenage girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:08:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26113924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allychik6/pseuds/Allychik6
Summary: This is the story of Arthur, a man who doesn’t quite know all of his own feelings and the teenage girl who, somehow, helps him sort it all out.“Hello?” Arthur answered his phone.“My therapist said I should write a letter to all the people I’m mad at.” Ashleigh huffed on her end of the line.“That sounds like good advice.” Arthur leaned back in his chair. It was late, and he was tired, but the day had been productive. It was strange to hear her voice on the other end of the line because he hadn’t been dreading it. In fact, he realized, he wanted to hear from her. Ashleigh put words to all the emotions he felt. “Let’s hear it then.”“What?”“Aren’t you mad at me?”She was quiet for a moment. “I wrote pages and pages to Mum and Dad.”Arthur smiled a little; he tried not to let it sound in his voice, “I can only imagine how much you wrote for me then.”She cleared her throat. “Hey Arsehole Arthur. That’s what I call you in therapy.”“It’s a good name. I like the alliteration.” He was grinning now.She cleared her throat again. “Hey Arsehole Arthur. Did you know about us? Ashleigh.”
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: In All Fairness [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904617
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63





	In All Fairness

Arthur lingered outside the small cottage house with its thatch roof and crowded front garden. It wasn’t at all what he had imagined when he’d read the text. He imagined something sleek and modern, or at least tidy. Not something so old fashioned with its herbs and its thatch. He felt--uncertain, in the face of all this history. Dew soaked the hem of his trousers, as he stood there, Uber long gone in the night. Arthur wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing here, except that she had asked, and he had felt it only fair.  


He pushed his hands into his pockets and couldn’t quite make himself move forward, towards the door, towards the woman waiting inside, towards an uncertain future. There was a car in the drive, a neither new nor old but some middling year Jetta, solar lights along the path from the drive to the front porch, a birdfeeder. The domesticity of it stung sharply, like a smack across the face. It felt so at odds with Arthur’s life, with the realities of his world, that he was certain he shouldn’t be here. Should never have replied to that first text, should never agreed to this meeting, certainly shouldn’t have kept it a secret.

But he was here now, he thought, savagely gripping his phone. And it was only fair.  


Arthur gathered his courage and stepped up to the front door to knock.  


It opened before he could get his knuckles on the wood. She was a tall woman, slender and beautiful with honey colored hair and chocolate eyes. She had a nearly perfect hourglass shape, and Arthur wondered for a moment if she had ever wanted to be a model. There were lines around her eyes though and a tightness about her mouth that Arthur was sure he had put there.  


“You’re different from what I was expecting,” she said and held the door so that only a thin line of light could sneak out around her. It was a warm enough night, but Arthur had to repress a shiver at her words. She shouldn’t have been expecting anything.  
Arthur realized then that she was beautiful, with her soft hair and her soft words. He understood that he’d been right before, to not look too closely at this carefully guarded secret.  


He didn’t say anything.  


With a sigh she pushed the door open all the way and said, “I suppose you’d better come in. I’ve tea in the kitchen.”  


He followed her through the front room, all warm golds and reds, plush furniture and soft blankets. There were stairs at the back of the room that bent their way upwards. The wood floor was perfectly polished and the decorative pillows perfectly placed on the sofa. Arthur noted the soft rug under the wooden coffee table and the lovely, if imperfect, copy of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers that hung on the wall.  


She caught him looking at it. “He did that for me, when we were still in school.”  


Arthur didn’t have any such tokens of affection, but then, he also wasn’t sure affection was something between the two of them. He said nothing and followed her into the kitchen.  


The kitchen was all clean white lines interrupted by soft black accents, and Arthur tried to picture him in this space. Maybe he would sit at the table, hunched over his coffee with the newspaper spread out all over everything, dripping marmalade and butter from his toast. Maybe he would lean against the butcher block counters while his tea brewed, arms crossed and frowning. Maybe he would sweep into the room just as the sunlight was beaming into the open window and pull this woman into a tight embrace, pressing eager kisses to every part of her face.  


Maybe any of those things was true, but Arthur couldn’t really imagine them. He could only see him standing in line at the airport Starbucks, clutching his Venti Macchiato with a double shot of espresso, because if he was going to drink coffee then it would be something burnt and disgusting with entirely too much caffeine.  
Arthur sat down at the table, and she poured two cups of tea. Arthur didn’t really like tea, but it felt rude not to drink it, so he took a sip.  


She did too.  


It was bitter and felt almost grainy in his mouth. The taste lingered almost unpleasantly and Arthur ran his tongue over his teeth, chasing a texture he couldn’t feel. He put the cup back down on the table and tried to make himself look her in the eye, but he couldn’t.  


She huffed a sudden laugh. “You’re prettier than I thought you’d be. I don’t know why; he’s always liked pretty things.”  


Arthur closed his eyes and wrapped his hands around the cup just to have something to do with them. He heard her swallow and the thunk of her cup hitting the table. This was much harder then he had thought it would be; he hadn’t thought he would feel all these emotions swimming through him. They roared and mewled and threatened to slip out through his mouth and his eyes. He had thought she would yell and scream and ask him what kind of man he thought he was. And he had planned to stand there and take the abuse because it was only fair.  


He hadn’t expected to feel a pang of loneliness at the sight of her warm home, hadn’t expected the inadequate feeling that was racing through his stomach. Hadn’t realized he was so dissatisfied with the way his life was. Hadn’t known that he wanted more.  


He certainly hadn’t thought she would make him tea.  


Arthur opened his eyes and immediately saw the picture on the refrigerator. He sucked in a loud breath through his teeth and felt faint. “I didn’t know there was a child.” The words were punched out of him in a great gasp.  


“Oh.” She looked over her shoulder at the picture too. “Yes. That’s Ashleigh.”  


Arthur stood up, chair scraping harshly against the tile floor but he could hardly hear the noise over the roaring in his head. A child. They had a child, and he hadn’t known. He stumbled over to the picture, moved the magnet with trembling fingers, held it close to his face. She was six, maybe seven, in this picture, with her mother’s honey hair and her father’s wide smile. All of their faces were crowded close together to fit into the picture. The bottom fell out of his stomach.  


“She’s beautiful.”  


“She’s twelve now with such an attitude.” Her voice was soft and full of love. “Going to give me all kinds of grey hairs.”  


“I--” For a moment, words failed Arthur. Not just a child, but a daughter. Ashleigh. “I-I won’t.” He looked up at her, at MaryAlice.  


MaryAlice’s face wrinkled in sadness. “Oh, I didn’t ask you to come here for that!” She moved closer to him, to look at the picture too. Her eyes were damp, and she was blinking, and it was only in seeing those things on her that Arthur realized he was doing the same. “I just wanted to know.”  


The front door opened, and Arthur’s head jerked up, heart pounding so loudly it must have echoed in the room. The loud steps followed the same path they had taken not ten minutes earlier from the living room to the kitchen. Arthur felt his heart rate speed up, felt his stomach clench in a sure knowledge and in fear. His fingers gripped the picture so hard he was surely leaving smudges, indents on their lives.  


And then Eames was filling the doorway with his broad shoulders and his warm smile, the smile Arthur had hoped would one day be his but realized now belonged to other people, the ones who lived in this house. Arthur hadn’t even realized he’d carried that hope with him, in the recesses of his heart. He’d thought theirs was a relationship of stolen moments in the bathroom, late night encounters that faded to shadows even before the sun rose. He’d thought it was nothing, something that would get buried underneath boarding passes and burner phones and dry cleaning bills. Not even a relationship, but something less.  


Arthur carefully folded the picture in his hand and tucked it in his pocket next to his cell phone, eyes glued to Eames the whole time. He didn’t see the way MaryAlice looked between them, hardly heard his name leave Eames’s lips, and didn’t hear at all the way that MaryAlice repeated, “I just wanted to know.”  


His ears were roaring again, and he couldn’t quite breath, and all he could see was their laughing faces in the picture. He and Eames didn’t laugh like that--they didn’t laugh at all. They didn’t have a warm house or apartment or condo or hotel room full of Knick knacks and gifts from family members and loving mementos of the early days of their relationship. They didn’t have a relationship.  


Arthur blinked, finally breaking the spell that had come over him when the front door had opened. He looked at the floor and muttered, “Excuse me.”  


Eames was saying something--Arthur’s name, maybe--but Arthur was already walking towards the door that led out the side of the house. It was tucked next to the refrigerator, a double Dutch door. And Arthur could just imagine MaryAlice standing there, the top half open so that she could watch _him_ and Ashleigh in the garden. Maybe they’d be planting? Maybe Ashleigh would be putting flowers in _his_ hair. Arthur sucked in a deep breath of the night air, of the jasmine and honeysuckle from the garden that would never be his.  


“Arthur!” Eames called again, his voice rough with some emotion that Arthur couldn’t identify. He was practically running to where Arthur was frozen by the gate, his hand a burning vice on Arthur’s forearm. “Arthur, please, let me explain.”  


Arthur jerked his arm free and shoved his hands in his pockets. He couldn’t look at Eames, couldn’t see anything but Eames. There wasn’t anything to explain, Arthur already had the picture. “Just fix it, Eames,” he said without turning, eyes drilling holes into the wooden gate. “Just fix it.”  


***  


It was three weeks later and Arthur got a call from a blocked number. He was in Russia, and had spent every spare moment outside trying to soak in the cold, to numb the pain. But it wasn’t cold enough. And now, he was inside the shitty office building with the drafts and the flickering lights, trying desperately to figure out how to kidnap a business tycoon, _in Russia_. He watched the phone buzz on the desk and immediately flashed back to the texts from MaryAlice, the ones that had come in while he’d been eating pizza in his Chicago apartment. His stomach rolled at the memory. Eventually the phone fell silent, and Arthur let out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.  


And then it started to ring again.  


Arthur reached out and answered, “Hello?”  


A heartbeat passed and then a young girl said, “Are you Arthur?”  


Arthur closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. “Yes. Are you Ashleigh?”  


“You’re a goddamn mother fucker, you know! A shit eating, arse fucking, son of a bitch who deserves to die in a ditch!” She hung up.  


Arthur fell onto his chair, phone clutched in both hands, and tucked his head between his knees while he tried desperately to breath.  


***  


Ashleigh called while Arthur was working a job in Italy. She blocked the number again, but Arthur could tell anyway. There was a feeling in his stomach, a bit like dread and a bit like relief. He answered the phone at his workstation in the abandoned house they had commandeered. Cobb was the extractor, and too busy trying to design mazes to notice what Arthur was doing at his desk. He always seemed too busy to notice what Arthur was going through; but then, Arthur supposed, grief was like that.  


“Hello.” Arthur swallowed  


“They’re getting a divorce. Irreconcilable differences, you wanker.” She was sniffling into the phone, had clearly been crying.  


Arthur pressed his lips to a thin fine line. He tried not to wonder what she looked like, if she was lying on the floor of her room, hiding at a friend’s house. Did her mother know she was calling him? “I’m very sorry to hear that.”  


“What the fuck does that even mean? Irreconcilable differences? Is it like, oh sorry, after twelve years, I’ve decided I’d really rather be fucked in the arse?” Her voice creaked and cracked, and Arthur wondered if she was still crying, or if she had already cried herself hoarse.  


“I don’t think it really works that way,” he said, trying to remember what people had said to him and remembering only the pain.  


“Well what way does it work? Because they're getting a divorce, and mum’s talking about selling the house. And I haven’t seen him in four months. And I’m never going to see him again, because he’s going to be too busy fucking you!”  


Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, it hadn’t been four months since that night. Why hadn’t Eames stayed? Why hadn’t he seen his daughter? “I’m sorry.”  


Ashleigh started crying on the other end of the line. “Why won’t he answer my calls?”  


Arthur covered his eyes with his free hand, squeezing them tight and tighter and trying desperately to feel something other than overwhelming pain. Because Eames wasn’t calling him either. They stayed that way, each silent on one end of the line, until finally, finally, Ashleigh hung up the phone.  


***  


It had been long enough after the Italy job, that Arthur was sure he should get rid of his android. There was a new blackberry he’d been eyeing, and he was well over his six month maximum for cell phone numbers. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to remove the sim card.  
Surely it would be alright to carry two phones for a while.  


Just in case.  


***  


They were working a job in India, and Arthur kept standing outside in the punishing heat, feeling the sweat soak into his shirt. He’d stripped off his jacket, but he was still wearing the dress shirt and tie; Cobb was down to his undershirt and boxers. It wasn’t a good look.  


“I think we should bring Eames in,” Cobb said.  


Arthur came in from the doorway.  


“We need a bigger safe, and I can’t crack that kind of security.”  


“Why not use a secret safe, or we could just make the safe look really impressive.” Arthur suggested.  


Cobb shook his head. “Remember that job in Austria a year ago?”  


Arthur’s hands were shaking. It had been nearly twenty-six days since Ashleigh had last called; had Eames finally fixed it? “There are lots of good thieves.” Arthur reminded him. “We should find someone local.”  


“Who’s local, then?”  


***  


“Hello?” Arthur answered his phone, one shoe on and one shoe off. His tie hung loose around his neck, and his vest was unbuttoned. Arthur felt as unbuttoned as he looked.  


“My therapist said I should write a letter to all the people I’m mad at.” Ashleigh huffed on her end of the line.  


“That sounds like good advice.” Arthur leaned back in his chair. It was late, and he was tired, but the day had been productive. It was strange to hear her voice on the other end of the line because he hadn’t been dreading it. In fact, he realized, he wanted to hear from her. Ashleigh put words to all the emotions he felt. “Let’s hear it then.”  


“What?”  


“Aren’t you mad at me?”  


She was quiet for a moment, and Arthur heard the rustling of papers. “I wrote pages and pages to my Mum and Dad.”  


Arthur smiled a little, because there was something about Ashleigh’s petulant tone that just made him want to smile. He tried not to let it sound in his voice, “I can only imagine how much you wrote for me then.”  


She cleared her throat. “Hey Arsehole Arthur. That’s what I call you in therapy.”  


“It’s a good name. I like the alliteration.” He was grinning now.  


She cleared her throat again. “Hey Arsehole Arthur. Did you know about us? Ashleigh.” She was less angry, Arthur realized suddenly, mostly sad and maybe a little curious.  


Arthur sighed and leaned forward on his desk. That was much shorter than he had been expecting. As a teenager, he’d spent hours and hours imagining what he would say to his parents, had imagined their various reactions, imagined his own. Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised him, her question, because he’d always just wanted to know why. “I knew about your mom,” Arthur admitted.  


“But not me?”  


“Not you.” Because it was true.  


Her voice was small as she said, “Doesn’t he talk about me?”  


Arthur leaned down to untie his other shoe, to occupy his hands while he spoke. It was easier that way, if he wasn’t thinking so much about the words he was saying. “He never talked about his home life.”  


“Why doesn’t he talk about me?” Her voice warbled on the other end of the line.  


“He didn’t talk about your mom either.” Arthur licked his lips. “I know him through work, we--” he paused to toe off his shoe--to find the right way to explain it to a twelve year old. “We work in the same industry, I guess, but we do different work. It’s my job to know everything about everyone and everything in our business. I found out.”  


“But if you knew about Mom, how could you not know about me?”  


Arthur licked his lips again. Frozen halfway out of his vest. “I didn’t want to know if there was a child.”  


“Why?” Her voice was hardly more than a breath against the phone.  


“Because I knew if there was one, then I would have to give him up. And I was selfish. I didn’t want to.” Arthur wiped a hand across his face and tried not to remember what it had been like to be the center of his attention.  


“You really are an arsehole.” her voice was bitter now, a familiar tone.  


“Yes.”  


She was crying again, softly, just little huffs of air. “Why would you fuck a married man? Even if he didn’t have kids?”  


“That’s a complicated question.” Arthur clutched the silk of his tie in his free hand trying to draw some comfort from the fabric. “I’m not proud of myself. It wasn’t a good thing to do, and I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am.” Because if nothing else in Arthur’s life was true, that was.  


“But why?” She whined. “I don’t understand why he would do that.”  


“I thought--” Arthur started to say, and then changed his mind. “Our jobs are dangerous, and at first it was adrenaline and stress and being alive. It was a-a way of coping.” How could he possibly explain that to a twelve year old? “And then, then I told myself that he was unhappy with your mom, that she couldn’t meet his needs and I could. But it wasn’t that at all. Not for me.” And wasn’t that just worse?  


“Did you love him?”  


Arthur’s chest was starting to ache again. Had he? “I don’t know.”  


“Did he love you?”  


God, but he remembered having these questions? An endless stream of them, just trying desperately to understand what happened and being completely unable. He still didn’t. “I don’t know, Ashleigh. I just don’t know.”  


“I hate you.”  


“I know.”  


She sniffed, and Arthur wondered if she was wiping her eyes too. Did she use her shirt sleeve? It was getting to be long-sleeve season in England. Did she use a tissue? “You’re the only one who tells me the truth. Why won’t anyone else just tell me?”  


This was easier, this he understood now. Had understood since he’d seen her picture on the refrigerator. “They want to protect you.”  


“That’s stupid.” She was back to sounding angry and petulant.  


And Arthur smiled. “Sometimes, parents want something they can’t have. They can’t shield you from this, but they still want to.”  


“You don’t do that.”  


“You deserve the truth. You deserve to know why.” Even if Arthur couldn’t answer that question.  


“Sometimes, sometimes I think you’re the only connection I have to my dad any more.”  


And Arthur didn’t say, sometimes I think you're the only connection I have too, but he wanted to. “I’m sorry.”  


“It’s his fault he doesn’t call or come round the house. That’s what my therapist says.”  


“She’s right. But I wish I could make him come home to you.”  


***  


It got to be a regular thing, the phone calls from Ashleigh. And they didn’t always talk about her parents or therapy or how much she hated Arthur. Sometimes they talked about school, about her friends, about different classes. She called when she got glasses, and texted him pictures of different frames for his opinion. She complained about school lunches and having to take the bus or walk, and about how her mom had started dating. They talked about dating and boys a lot, actually. She told him all about her one date at the arcade, and how it had been boring and Ethan hadn’t paid any attention to her at all. She told him all about Art class, and how her teacher said she had promise.  


She mailed him a birthday present. Arthur had made a special trip to Chicago just to open it. He hung the Van Gogh replica in his bedroom because the blue flowers went with the decor in there better than the living room. He didn’t ask if she was thinking about her dad when she painted it, but he wanted to.  


Arthur soaked in every word Ashleigh shared with him, hung on them, because sometimes she was so like her father it was like a glimpse into his past. And sometimes she was so different it was like trying to understand an alien.  


And sometimes it was just nice to do something other people did.  


***  


“I don’t get it!” Ashleigh shouted in frustration, and Arthur wondered if she was pulling on her hair or biting her lip. “What’s the point of Maths anyway?”  


Arthur rubbed his forehead and looked around the restaurant. Cobb was clearly not going to show. “Text me a picture of the problem, I’ll call you back in five minutes.”  


The picture came through after just a moment:

> Ben and Cam are scuba diving. Ben is 15.8 meters below the surface of the water. Cam is 4.2 meters above Ben.  
>  **What is Cam's position relative to the surface of the water?**

“I hate word problems,” Arthur said out loud to himself and started to draw a picture of the problem. Maybe she would understand better if she could picture it.  


***  


“You’re very grouchy today. Maybe I’ll start calling you Oscar.” Arthur toed his shoes off in the hotel room.  


“I hate you,” Ashleigh said. “I started my period.”  


For a moment, Arthur drew a blank. Not that he didn’t know, but it wasn’t really something he encountered on any regular basis. “I wouldn’t know much about that. Does it make you an enormous grouch?” He laid down on the bed.  


“Yes,” she grumbled. “And I ate an entire box of biscuits for lunch. Aren’t you, like, old? How do you not know this stuff?”  


Arthur could tell she was laying down too, just from the way she talked. “Well, the being entirely gay and having no sisters makes a difference.”  


“Don’t you have lesbian friends or something?”  


Arthur looked around his hotel room. It had been almost a year at this point since Cobb had fled, since that night at Ashleigh’s house, since he had done any of those normal things one did with friends. “Not really. I haven’t even been home in over a year.”  


“They don’t call?”  


“My job’s dangerous,” Arthur said. He didn’t mention the two phone thing, that hers were the only nonwork calls he received. “I don’t want them to get involved.”  


“But I call.”  


Arthur smiled; sometimes she was so smart, just like her dad. “Yeah, I don’t think I could stop you.”  


“Don’t you get lonely?”  


“Sometimes.” Arthur tried not to, but he couldn’t help it, couldn’t not think about those stolen nights he and Eames would crash together like a tornado meeting a volcano, all whirlwind and violence. And at the end of it, Arthur would feel wrung out, and good, and sometimes he’d trace the tattoos and wonder what Eames liked to watch on TV. Those thoughts didn’t make him feel less lonely.  


***  


“Your birthday’s coming up,” Arthur said while he was standing in line for coffee in the airport in Paris. “Is there something you want?”.  


“There’s this art book,” Ashleigh replied. “It’s got, like how to stuff, and explanations, and shows you how to break down all these famous paintings and stuff.” She sighed loudly. “But I think Mum’s getting me that.”  


“But you're into art, then?” Arthur asked, needing the clarification. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do about this birthday, but Ashleigh had been talking about it nonstop, and fourteen had been an important year for Arthur. He’d met Mal that year.  


“Yeah, I guess. This week anyway.” She huffed a sigh again. “I don’t know. I know my dad was into it.”  


Arthur knew that too, of course. “It’s okay to like stuff your dad likes even if you don’t like your dad.”  


“I don’t know. I miss him, and I’m angry. And I remember how he used to take me to the fair and the museums in London for all the special exhibits. It’s stupid. I should just make up my mind. Either I hate him and never want to see his slimy guts again, or I miss him and want him to take me to the Chagall Exhibit.”  


“Is that who you like?” Arthur asked, steering them back into safer conversation.  


“Yeah, I guess.”  


“I never did like him. Too many goats and violins. It was like a scavenger hunt.”  


Ashleigh laughed; Arthur liked that sometimes he could make her laugh. “William is getting me drawing classes.”  


“That sounds like fun.” Arthur stepped up to the counter. “Cafe Americano s’il vous plait.” Arthur ordered.  


“Are you in Paris?!”  


“Yes.” Arthur said, stepping to the side to wait for his order. “It’s a big job. I might not be as available for the next couple of months.”  


“What’s the job?”  


Arthur smiled and took his cup. “We don’t talk about work, Ashleigh.”  


“I know,” she said petulantly. “I guess, I mean, you’re so close, and I didn’t know.”  


It was a strange thing between them, like stolen moments, never really meeting, always over the phone. Sometimes Arthur wondered if he should visit; sometimes he wondered if MaryAlice knew he was talking to her daughter.  


“You said, it’s going to be a long job?” Ashleigh said, voice quiet.  


“Yeah, it’s--it’s a big one.”  


“Do you think, I mean, when it’s all over, do you think you could visit?”  


Arthur took his coffee from the barista and then looked at the ceiling without seeing it. “I don’t know. I don’t know what will happen at the end of this job.” He moved towards the exit, carryon slung over one shoulder, coffee in hand. “To be honest, I don’t know that I will be available to visit.”  


And then her voice got even smaller. “What do you mean?”  


Arthur swallowed. “I can’t talk about work, Ashleigh. But this job, it’s really, really big. And, if we fail--” He closed his eyes and stepped out into the gas ridden air of Paris. “Well, I might be in jail.” Because he wanted to tell her the truth, wanted her to know the reality, because that’s what their relationship was founded on.  


“Why do it then?”  


“That’s complicated.” Arthur sighed.  


“You always say that.”  


He smiled at her tone. “How about this? If I make it through this job, I’ll come for a visit, and I’ll tell you some of it.”  


“Why not all?” she insisted  


And Arthur smiled bigger. “I’ll tell you why I do this work. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”  


“Alright then.” Ashleigh agreed, suddenly bright. “When you visit, can we go to the museums?”  


And right then, Arthur realized if he did end up in jail, he was absolutely going to waste his one phone call on her, so she would know that he didn’t leave because he wanted to. And fuck it all, he’d explain over that phone about Mal and Cobb, and how he had to do this work to protect them, and how he’d met Eames that way, and how he was so sorry that it had happened the way that it had, but that he couldn’t possibly regret meeting her. That she was maybe one of the best things in his life. Because she deserved to know that.  


***  


Arthur had known that Ashleigh would call while he was in the warehouse; it had happened before on jobs and was ultimately inevitable on one as long as the Fischer Job was sure to be. He just hadn’t been expecting all the conversation about it.  


“Who was that?” Ariadne asked as soon as Arthur hung up the phone.  


Cobb never asked who was calling when Arthur was talking to Ashleigh, or anyone else actually. Arthur stared at Ariadne for a moment and tried to figure out what to say. He couldn’t tell the truth and he was shit at lying.  


But Cobb beat him to the punch. “His girlfriend, Ashley.”  


“You have a girlfriend?” Ariadne was sort of exuberant.  


Arthur hadn’t known that Cobb even knew Ashleigh’s name. He shook off the shock and tucked the phone into his pocket, suddenly keenly aware that he had the picture of Ashleigh folded in his wallet, a wallet that might be picked at any moment. “She’s not my girlfriend.”  


“What, did you two get engaged?” Dom asked, leaning over one of Ariadne’s models not looking at Arthur.  


“No.”  


“Well, if she’s not your girlfriend, then who is she?” Ariadne asked, head cocked to the side in genuine interest. Arthur tried not to hate her at that moment. She didn’t know any better.  


The door slammed open, and Eames appeared with the take-out. He filled the doorway, and Arthur flashed back to another room and another doorway. His heart started to race and he knew his face had gone a bit pale. Was it always going to be this way, these painful reminders of something he had never had, never would have?  
“Oh, what are we talking about, hm? Arthur looks delightfully irritated.” Eames grinned at the room.  


“His girlfriend,” Cobb replied, finally looking up at the smell of food.  


“He has a girlfriend?” Eames asked as he handed the food to Cobb. His smile had turned to a deep frown.  


Something about that tugged at Arthur. “No.”  


At the same time Ariande said, “Apparently.”  


Eames looked between the two of them, trying to deduce the truth from the situation. “I didn’t think girlfriends were really your thing, Arthur. Have you suddenly become a bit more flexible?”  


“They’ve been dating for at least a year,” Cobb said as he dug out his curry.  


Arthur sucked in an angry breath and snatched a fork from the bag. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”  


“Come now, Arthur, it’s nothing to be ashamed about, living your whole like thinking of an entire gender in one way and then suddenly realizing there’s something you’ve been missing all this time,” Eames teased. “Who hasn’t gone through a moment like that?” But they both knew Eames hadn’t. He’d always know exactly what he wanted from Arthur.  


Arthur knew he was teasing, knew better then to rise to the bait, knew where this all ended up--in a thatch cottage. “Speaking from experience?”  


He just smiled wider. “No need to be bitter because it took you a bit longer then me. Now, tell us all about this girlfriend of yours.”  


“No.” Arthur snatched his palak paneer and moved back to his desk.  


“Her name is Ashley.” Ariadne contributed.  


And Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remind himself that Ariadne was new, that she didn’t know better, that she didn’t understand the history. Tried to comfort himself in the knowledge that Eames wouldn’t actually do anything to Ashleigh.  


“Ashley, is it?” Eames raised his eyebrows and looked from Arthur’s back to Ariadne. “I’ve always liked that name.” There was a brittle edge to his voice even as he tried to keep it light.  


The shitty plastic of the fork bit into Arthur’s hand from where he was squeezing it too tightly.  


“I do think I should meet this girl, don’t you, Arthur? Take her out for a drink, perhaps. Explain how she’ll need to be careful with you.” He was teasing, and Cobb was snorting into his curry, and Ariadne was trying to cover a smile.  


Arthur put down his food, stomach cramped too tightly to eat now, fork still cutting into his hand. “Stop, Eames.”  


“No, I think it might be important for me to explain about the tools she might need, to keep you full and fully satisfied. These things are better discussed after a few drinks. Unless, of course, you’ve already discussed it with her, hm?” He was leering, and filling Arthur’s sight with red.  


Arthur inhaled slowly and focused on counting, pictured the numbers in his mind. One two three four, exhale, one two three four. Inhale. He felt Eames come up behind him, felt the heat of him radiating through Arthur’s clothes, remembered the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his hands, his skin tingling and his awareness of Eames forcing out irrelevant thoughts--like counting.  


“A girl like Ashley deserves to know what she’s getting into,” Eames said softly, just for Arthur’s ears, and Arthur wasn’t sure what Eames was angry about, angry that Arthur had gone to MaryAlice, angry that they had gotten divorced, angry that he didn’t see his own daughter. Angry that he didn’t see Arthur any more?  


“Eames,” Arthur said once in warning, mouth hard and fist clenched.  


“Tell me about her Arthur,” Eames ran right over the warning. “Or I’ll be forced to find her for myself. After all, a woman like her deserves to know what kind of man you are, what kind of company you keep. I’d be doing her a favor.” And Arthur didn’t know if Eames meant that he’d tell Ashleigh about him being gay or about the price Cobol had put on his head, wasn’t sure that it mattered either way. Eames was still talking, “I promise I’ll find her, Arthur, find her and show her the error of her ways in trusting you.”  
It had been years since Arthur had felt this kind of rage. That Eames would threaten Ashleigh, in any way--  


With one hand outstretched, Arthur turned impossibly fast, latched onto Eames’s shirt, shoved him into the edge of his desk so the wood would leave a long angry line across his back. And at the same time, Arthur’s other hand went for his gun, pressed it tightly against Eames’s forehead. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Eames.”  


“Oh, I’ll keep it,” Eames snarled back. “I promise I will find this Ashley of yours.”  


“Good.” Arthur stared at him a moment longer than necessary, kept the gun pressed tight to his forehead to make his intentions clear. And then, as Eames’ chest continued to suck in deep breaths, Arthur pulled the gun back, shoved it in the back of his trousers where it occasionally lived, eyes still boring holes into Eames. He stepped back, turned, and left Eames panting against the edge of his desk, a fully dressed pantomime of what they used to be. Arthur looked at Cobb. “I’ll be back on Monday.”  


There was a Chagall exhibit in London after all.  


***  


Arthur sat on the train and played idly with his phone for several minutes before finally unlocking it and scanning through the numbers. He pressed dial, and waited through the rings for the soft, hesitant voice on the other end.  


“Hello?”  


Arthur hesitated for a moment and then gathered his courage. “It’s Arthur.”  


There was a moment of silence. “Hello, Arthur.”  


Arthur licked his lips. “I don’t know if you know that I’ve been talking to Ashleigh.”  


She let out a shaky breath. “I can’t say I understand it, but yes I know.”  


Arthur closed his eyes. “I was-I was wondering if I could take her to the Chagall Exhibit at the National Gallery.”  


“I’m sure she’d like that.” There were strangely pregnant pauses in their conversation, as if they were speaking from across the ocean rather than just the channel. Arthur wondered if it was the connection at all.  


“I’ll be in London in the morning. I realize that might be too soon.”  


“No, no, not at all. It will be a perfect surprise for her. And, and you could come to dinner at ours, we’re having a special meal at the house, for her birthday.”  
“I don’t want to intrude on your family.”  


“You won’t be.” She huffed a little laugh. “You’ve been an unspoken member for so long, that I think it’s time we made it official.”  


“Won’t William--”  


“I’m sure he will.” MaryAlice paused. “But, maybe meeting you will help him understand better.”  


“Okay.”  


“Okay.”  


***  


Dinner did not go well. Arthur sat at one end of the table, next to Ashleigh and across from William. It was the same kitchen table where they had shared tea two years ago, the same butcher block counters and white cabinets with black pulls. There was a different picture on the refrigerator, with Ashleigh and MaryAlice and William sitting on a picnic blanket. MaryAlice and Ashleigh were dressed in lovely spring dresses, and William in a respectable polo. There were tiny purple flowers in the grass around their picnic blanket. Ashleigh was seated in the middle, not quite smiling, and William had his head turned to say something to MaryAlice. Arthur spent most of the meal looking at the picture and wondering what he was saying. They were quite the picture.  


“So, Arthur, what do you do?” Willam asked, breaking into his thoughts.  


“Consulting,” Arthur replied, feeling suddenly like he was a high school boy being grilled about his after graduation plans.  


“What kind of consulting?”  


“Mostly market research.”  


“So, you’re in marketing then?”  


“Not exactly. Mostly research into competition.”  


“Isn’t that still marketing?”  


They were both stilted, the conversation almost confrontational, and Arthur could feel that William resented his answers. And a part of Arthur resented the questions even as he understood them, even as he agreed with the unspoken but not unheard judgement in William’s tone.  


“Stop.” Ashleigh sulked. “Leave Arthur alone.” Again, with the high school boyfriend deja vu.  


William started to grind his teeth, and Arthur put his hand on the table near Ashleigh but was careful not to touch her. It was easy enough, it wasn’t like Arthur was a touchy-feely sort of person, but they had hugged when she’d gotten off the train in London and Arthur had had to blink back tears. “It’s alright, Ashleigh.” And then Arthur looked at William. “I work with a lot of confidential information, and that makes it difficult for me to talk about my work.”  


“Hm,” William replied and they all went back to picking at their fish for a moment.  


“How did you meet, Ashleigh?”  


Ashleigh frowned at William. “This is Arthur, the guy who my dad was fucking when they were married.” She pointed at her mom with her fork.  


Both MaryAlice and William shouted, “Language!”  


Ashleigh muttered something unintelligible to her plate.  


William looked at Arthur for some sort of explanation.  


Arthur heaved a sigh. “Not one of my finer moments, I’ll admit.” A part of him missed Eames. Eames would have been able to smile and make the whole situation seem funny and charming rather than sad and pathetic. Eames would have had William eating out of the palm of his hand. All Arthur could do was make everyone feel nervous.  


“You can’t possibly be serious?” William turned to MaryAlice. “You let this man take Ashleigh to London?! He’s clearly some kind of pervert.”  


“Don’t call him that!” Ashleigh jumped up from the table with her hands clenched. “You don’t know anything about it! You don’t get to judge!”  


“Ashleigh, a thirty year old man does not have this kind of relationship with a fourteen year old girl without being a pervert.”  


Arthur didn’t defend himself; he knew what it looked like.  


“You don’t know shit!” she shouted and ran off from the table.  


Arthur put both his hands in his lap and looked at MaryAlice, who nodded once and then followed Ashleigh. It was strange, this sort of unspoken knowledge they had of each other even though they’d only met twice now.  


William glared at Arthur. “I don’t like you.”  


“I could tell,” Arthur said wryly.  


There was shouting echoing down from upstairs and Arthur looked towards it. William wasn’t wrong, even if he wasn’t right either. Ashleigh deserved better; she deserved a father who could go to her art shows and make appropriately threatening noises at potential boyfriends. She didn’t deserve a father who’d run off and left a castaway fuck who might be arrested at any moment in his place. “She’s a good girl,” Arthur said suddenly, as if the shouting were dragging the words out. “And she’s struggled a lot without her dad.”  


“MaryAlice said that you met him through work.”  


“Yes.”  


William shook his head, half in disbelief and half in outrage. “How could you insert yourself into their lives after what you did?”  


Arthur finally turned his gaze to William. He was handsome enough and utterly lacking in the charm that Eames oozed. Arthur could see what MaryAlice liked about him, could see that he would be good for Ashleigh, if she let him. “I didn’t. Ashleigh found my number in her mother’s phone; she called me.”  


“And you just kept answering.” William shook his head, and Arthur felt the disappointment.  


He closed his eyes for a moment and remembered those angry words Ashleigh had shouted, remembered the anger and the hurt in her voice, remembered the way it echoed his own. “It was only fair. I did ruin her life after all.”  


“It’s not right,” William said. “She needs structure and someone who can be there for her. Do the right thing; don’t answer when she calls.”  
Arthur opened his eyes again. Maybe he could do the right thing for once in his life. “Please excuse me.” He stood up and walked over to the kitchen door, the one that led into the side garden. It seemed right to leave that way.  


***  


He didn’t answer when Ashleigh called the next day.  


Or the day after.  


Or the day after.  


Arthur left his phone off, but in his pocket, a heavy weight and a constant reminder of what he’d done.  


***  


Eames was the one to notice, because of course Eames was the one to notice. They were both working late, Eames on his Forge and Arthur because Eames was there. He was spinning the phone on his desk absently, trying not to think, when Eames came up behind him.  


“Trouble in paradise?” he quipped.  


“Hm.” Arthur flicked the phone to spin it again.  


“You know,” Eames started slowly. “I might be able to offer some advice. After all, I do know a thing or two about trying to protect people from this world we live in.”  


Arthur smacked his hand on the phone to stop the spinning, and then he looked up at Eames. “How do you always know what I’m thinking about?”  


“Oh darling, it’s all over your face.” He put his hand on Arthur’s cheek, ran his thumb over the bone there, the pad of his thumb just the right side of rough. “Do you want to talk about it?”  


Arthur closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. It had been such a long time since someone had touched him like that. “How did you do it?”  


Eames let his hand fall away, took a step back. “Painfully. I did it painfully.”  


And it was one of those rare moments when Eames let the mask drop and showed the man he was inside. His face was suddenly wrinkled and his eyes went deep and long as if recalling an age ago when he’d not been in such pain, when he’d not hidden himself away quite so completely.  


And Arthur remembered what it had felt like then, suddenly, like they were on top of the world, like each job was a miracle full of wondrous things to be discovered. A time when life had been exciting and there had been pleasure, and Arthur didn’t live for a few stolen moments on a cell phone.  


“Let’s get a drink.” It was a terrible idea, but Arthur wanted a taste of what he’d had back then.  


Eames’s eyes snapped to Arthur, hungry and open. And Arthur stood, put his hand on the back of Eames’s neck, held it tight as he pressed his closed mouth to Eames and soaked in the warmth of him.  


“Yeah, a drink,” Eames breathed out shakily, and then he breathed in--the mask coming back on, but not as tightly as before. Arthur could see the way his fingers shook just slightly as he found Arthur’s jacket, felt the way those fingers lingered as they smoothed the fabric over his shoulders, the heat of them on the small of his back as Eames steered Arthur to the door.  


They didn’t make it to the bar.  


***  


The Fischer Job was a complete fuck-up, and Arthur had never been so glorious in the feeling of being alive. There was relief when he opened his eyes on the plane, fear when at first Saito and Cobb didn’t, and then euphoria when they did. He bottled the feeling up so that it itched underneath his skin, but it was too much and Arthur had never been good at masking his feelings.  


He beamed at the customs agent who stamped his passport, and the other passengers as they waited at baggage claim, at Eames when he brushed past so that their shoulders touched. And Ariadne looked as stupid-happy as Arthur felt with a grin that couldn’t be contained and light blazing out of her eyes as she looked at Cobb who just looked shocked. His hands were trembling as Cobb took his passport, as he reached for his luggage. Arthur watched as he looked at Saito, something deep and unspoken passed between them, and Arthur had to wonder what had happened.  


Yousef clapped Arthur on the shoulder. “We have survived, my friend.” Because that was the way Yousef talked, and Arthur beamed at him, hand reaching into his pocket to turn on his phone.  


“We have indeed.” Arthur replied just as his luggage came around the carousel.  


There was a buzzing in his pocket, a near continuous vibration as messages flooded in after being off for so long. And Arthur’s beam immediately turned into a frown. He reached a hand back into his pocket for his Blackberry, which was still in the tight clutch of his fingers. It was the old Android buzzing away, the phone only one person called.  


Arthur let go of the Blackberry and, with trembling fingers, took out the Android, stared at the screen as text after text, voicemail after voicemail came through. He stared until it went still in his hand.  


“Something the matter?” Yousef asked, and Arthur shook his head.  


Still trembling, Arthur opened his voicemail, scanned through the weeks worth of voicemails to the two most recent, both numbers he recognized as being people who shouldn’t be calling: MaryAlice and the elderly couple who lived in the apartment next to Arthur in Chicago.  


He pressed MaryAlice’s number first, and immediately heard her sobbing into the phone, the words barely discernible, but Ashleigh’s name came through clearly enough along with “run off”. He didn’t bother to listen to the whole thing, but moved on to the number from his neighbor.  


“Arthur, wanted to let you know we let your niece into your apartment. It’s been so long since we’ve heard from you, hope everything is going well. She’s a darling girl, told us all about her spring break exchange. She swore she wanted it to be a surprise, but well, the missus didn’t think that was at all on the up and up and made me swear to call. Again, hope everything is going well.”  


Arthur closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then opened them again. He pressed redial for MaryAlice.  


She answered on the very first ring, “Arthur! Where--”  


Arthur cut her off. “I’ve just landed in LA. How long?”  


“I don’t know.” She sobbed a bit. “She said she was going to a friend’s house for the night, but didn’t come home. I got a text just a few hours ago saying she was in Chicago. She’s not answering her phone, William is trying to get a flight out, but,” she broke off in more crying.  


Arthur picked up his luggage and looked up for the departures board, his eyes caught Eames in the process. “I’m getting a flight now. I’ll be in Chicago in a few hours. There’s a direct flight.”  


“She was so angry after her birthday, and she and William got into a huge row just the other day, and I--”  


“It’s going to be fine,” Arthur said in his confident voice. Because it was going to be fine, Ashleigh was in Chicago to see him, and within twenty-four hours Arthur would be too. He would be there if he had to rent a fucking car and drive the whole way.  


Eames was standing in front of him now.  


“I need to go, now. But I promise I will have her call you as soon as I arrive in Chicago.” Arthur didn’t listen to MaryAlice sobbing out a grateful thank you, just hung up the phone and turned to Eames. “Come to Chicago with me.”  


“What’s in Chicago?” Eames quirked an eyebrow and leered as only Eames could.  


Arthur licked his lips. “Ashleigh.”  


And the leer dropped away, leaving the raw part of Eames exposed. “You want to take me to meet your girlfriend?”  


Arthur shrugged. “You promised you’d find her.”  


Eames stepped up into Arthur’s space so tightly, their chests brushed with each breath. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you?” And for a moment words failed Eames.  


Arthur put his hand on Eames’s wrist, his face unconsciously wrinkled in-in care and concern. “Keep your promise, come to Chicago with me.”  


And somehow, Eames followed Arthur over to departures, he lingered behind Arthur while he bought two tickets leaving within the next hour, followed him through security and onto the plane. They didn’t sit together, there weren’t two seats next to each other, but Eames could see the side of Arthur’s head, the edge of his phone as he texted before takeoff.  


***  


They took a very silent cab to the apartment which was up on the twelfth floor. Arthur got out his keys and then paused. He looked at Eames. “I didn’t tell her you were coming, and-and she might be a little angry. I find it best just to let her scream it out, and then try to talk.”  


Eames grabbed Arthur’s wrist. “Why did you bring me then?”  


Arthur stared at him, silently willing Eames not to run away. “You promised, and I want you to keep your promise.” He unlocked the door and opened it.  
There was a closet right off the entryway, where Arthur hung his coat and put his shoes. The TV wasn’t on in the living room, and Arthur decided Ashleigh must be in the bedroom. He turned back to Eames, who was looking at the outdated furniture as if it held the secrets to the universe. “Maybe you should wait here.”  


Eames nodded and walked over towards the couch.  


Arthur pushed open the bedroom door; Ashleigh was asleep in the middle of the bed, hair and limbs spread across the duvet in wild abandon. He flicked the light on and said, “Hey.”  


Ashleigh stirred sleepily, rubbed her eyes, and then smiled at Arthur. “Arsehole Arthur, you’re home.”  


“I’m home,” Arthur crossed his arms and leaned on the door, but he didn’t look angry.  


“You put my painting in your bedroom. You really are a pervert, aren’t you?” She grinned at him.  


“Probably.” Arthur uncrossed his arms. “There’s someone else here who’d like to meet you.”  


“You’ve been talking about me? At work? Living dangerously, are you?” she teased.  


Arthur stopped smiling. “I’d never do something to put you at risk. And, if you don’t want to meet him, I’ll send him away.”  


“Him? Have you got a boyfriend?” Ashleigh teased again, and she sounded so much like her father that Arthur’s heart ached.  


“Not exactly.”  


And the smile drained off of her face too. “You brought him here.” Her voice was so quiet.  


“It seemed only fair.”  


She stood up and ran her fingers through her hair. “Did you forgive him?”  


Arthur wrapped his arms around her in a hug, “I think I just understand him better. And you deserve the chance to know him too, if you want it.”  


Her fingers were tight in his shirt, her face pressed close to his chest so that Arthur could feel her nod against him. “I’m really angry with him,” she said when she pulled back.  


Arthur gave her a soft smile. “I am looking forward to finding out what you call him in therapy.”  


“What do you call him?”  


“I call him Eames.”  


“Mum calls him Charles.”  


“I think it’s okay for you to find your own name for him.”  


Ashleigh nodded, and looked towards the door. “Is he out there?”  


“Yes.”  


“Okay.” She sucked in a deep breath, and slipped her fingers in between Arthur’s.  


He led her out into the room where Eames was looking through Arthur’s DVD collection, because that was how long it had been since he had really lived in this apartment. “Eames,” Arthur’s voice rang through the room, and Eames startled and turned around. “This is Ashleigh.”  


And for the first time in two years, Eames saw his daughter. She was frowning with narrowed eyes dressed in denims and a pink t-shirt that highlighted the honey color of her hair. Her nails were pink, and her fingers had marker stains from art class.  


All the color drained from Eames’s face and his gaze flicked over to Arthur. “Ashleigh?”  


Arthur nodded.  


“I’m going to call you Richard.” Ashleigh broke the moment.  


“That’s not even close to my name.” Eames squinted at her in confusion.  


“Yeah,” Ashleigh drawled. “But you look like a Dick.”  


And Arthur laughed so hard tears leaked out of the corner of his eyes, and Ashleigh smiled, and Eames was left staring at the two of them in confusion.  


When Arthur’s laughter died down enough that he was able to wipe away the tears and see the naked fear and want on Eames’s face, he said, “I thought maybe we could visit the Art Institute tomorrow. And Eames could point out all the forgeries, and maybe you’d like to show him some of your drawings?”  


And Ashleigh cocked her head to the side and considered Eames for a moment. “I suppose. I did come all this way after all.”  


And Eames’s shoulders dropped. “Yeah, the Art Institute.”  


“Good,” Arthur smiled at them both. “Now, I believe you need to call your Mom. She was very upset.”  


“Alright,” Ashleigh rolled her eyes and took Arthur’s phone.  


She walked into the bedroom, and Arthur walked over to Eames. “Stay the night.”  


“What?”  


“I know you, Eames. If you leave you’re going to panic and you might not come back, and you’ll lose her forever if you do that.”  


Eames looked at the closed bedroom door for a long moment. “What about you?”  


“Yeah, Eames. I’ll probably be gone too.”  


He sucked in a shaky breath, and Ashleigh came back out of the room. “She wants to talk to you now.”  


Arthur took the phone and wandered into the kitchen, getting out a glass and filling it with water, his words drifting out of the room slowly. “Yeah, she can stay with me for a few days. Yeah, I don’t mind. I’ll get return tickets sometime tomorrow and text you the details. I can visit for a few days too. Yeah, there's some stuff to work out. I’ll get a hotel, no no, don’t do that. I think it’s better if I get a hotel. Oh, well, I might not be alone.”  


Ashleigh gave Eames a long, considering look. “You’re not fucking Arthur, are you?”  


“What?”  


“Because if you hurt him, I’m gonna have to kill you. And I’m a minor, and cute, I can claim self defense, _Dick_.  


“You’re a bit of a menace, aren’t you?” Eames replied, just a little bit impressed.  


“Well, Mum says I take after my dad.” Ashleigh shrugged.  


Arthur hung up the phone and looked at the two of them from the doorway. They both looked awkward and proud in that way that promised lots of shouting and hurt feelings. So Arthur smiled at Ashleigh as he walked through the room to find the remote for the television. “Should we watch a movie?”  


Ashleigh shrugged. “I heard MadMax is good.”  


“You want to watch MadMax?” Arthur said, while she plucked the DVD from the collection.  


Ashleigh put the disk in the player, and Arthur reached out and took Eames’s hand. And Eames stared at Arthur for a moment, stunned and looking like he might run. So Arthur gave a little tug, and Eames half fell onto the couch next to him, fingers gripping tight and almost fearful. Arthur smiled, and Ashleigh came back to the couch.  


“Ugh, you better not wake me up in the middle of the night. Mum and William are bad enough, I don’t want to hear it from you two.”  


Arthur squeezed Eames’s hand, and Eames squeezed back. “Fair enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> AN: So, I was reading some stuff about the Inception Fandom and I ran across this blog entry where the author was sort of saying how they didn’t support A/E and how it didn’t seem supported by the movie. It was an interesting argument that I didn’t quite disagree with despite being very much an A/E fan. I have always found it a little difficult to believe that A/E is a thing DURING the movie, mostly because of Eames calling Arthur a stick in the mud. It’s always been a thing I wanted to understand, why does he call Arthur that. And why does he say Arthur lacks imagination because that whole Elevator thing is incredibly creative. So it has always sounded like a jilted lover type of comment.  
> They went on in the blog to say how Arthur couldn’t have secret feelings for Eames because every feeling Arthur has shows up on his face. They made an argument that Arthur is in fact almost unaware of his own feelings because otherwise he would do a better job hiding them. And that, when Eames says “Dream a little bigger” it’s actually a flippant comment meant not to be taken seriously. Because Eames is EXCELLENT at hiding his feelings, all of his comments are impersonal and meant to be discarded, this is because Eames knows exactly how he feels.  
> I liked this idea.  
> Additionally, this blog posited the idea that Eames has a family somewhere. And that idea sort of stuck with me. What if Arthur was the other man? What if Arthur met Eames’s wife? What if that caused the dissolution of his marriage? That makes the stick in the mud comment reasonable, Eames could be totally mad at the man he thinks destroyed his marriage. And that is where this came from.


End file.
